


The Poison of Life

by amalcolm



Category: Jane Eyre - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-07
Updated: 2010-12-07
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:51:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amalcolm/pseuds/amalcolm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After St. John's death, could Jane Rochester have been wrong about his inability to love?  An<br/>examination of letters and diary entries could very well show that he was, after all, a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Poison of Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emef](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emef/gifts).



“The Poison of Life”  
‘Oh what a tangled web we weave  
When first we practice to deceive!’  
Sir Walter Scott, “Marmion”  
*  
The man called Rivers lay in his wooden cot, dreaming of water. He knew that Hell was a fire that shall never be quenched, but a summer in Sarampore was Hell on Earth. The thirst, the prayers for a single drop of cold water to fall on his wasting body, were ceaseless. Perhaps the heathens were being punished—for their worshipping of false deities (cows, the staple of a sound British economy) or for their condemnation of those they called ‘un-clean.’ But he was being punished along with them. His own name notwithstanding, there was no cleansing lake, no icy river, nor even a sound English downpour to wash away his doubts and regrets.  
Shakily, he rose and stumbled his way over to the cheap deal table that served as both dining apparatus and writing desk. Collapsing into a hard chair, he reached for his personal writing paper and pen. His charwoman, a converted Indian woman, had left him food on a tray covered with a tattered cloth. He poked his finger at something lukewarm and gelatinous. Sliced mango. And a kind of bread the heathens called naan. The food alone was to Rivers a test worthy of Job. He simply had a constitution unfit to anything outside of a simple English fare. Oh, for a taste of Hannah’s shortbread! But that was never to be again.  
He pulled his dressing gown tighter across his wasting shoulders. The apparel had been cream coloured at one time, but his sweat had stained it sickly yellow. Yet despite the nauseating heat, still his skin was chilled.  
Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus.  
He had written that to his cousin, to Miss Jane Eyre, who had been Mrs. Edward Rochester for nearly two decades now, when his strong wrist and self-assured brain had convinced him he was soon to be with his Maker. How easily he had written those words! How sure he was in his own righteousness, his own service, his own decisions! He was no longer sure. Oh, his faith remained resolute, to be certain. He never suffered even a second of doubt that God had blessed his mission, that he was delivering the heathens of India into Jesus Christ’s loving arms. But he did doubt his aloneness.  
But I am poor and needy; yet the Lord thinketh upon me, as the Psalm said. Poverty was a state he had lived in for so many years now that he could not mind that, but there was a need.  
His long fair head (like the angels, he could recall the soft voice of his mother saying so) he lay upon the scratched wood. He would rest here before beginning his letter. That would take every bit of strength God could bless him with.  
‘Jane,’ he said softly. He was not calling to her. He was just remembering the sound of her name.

*  
One stipulation of Jane Eyre to marrying Rochester was in the planting of a garden at Ferndean and specifically that of an orchard. The dreariness had subsided considerably with the addition of a dozen apple, a dozen pear and half a dozen plum trees. Jane adored her plants and insisted upon supervising their harvest every year. And every fall, interchanging, the Fitzjames and Wharton families arrived to participate in the festivities. After the apple pies, pear tarts and plum puddings had been eaten (to say nothing of the cider), the cousin’s family would leave with a large basket of fruit for the winter.  
The year that St. John Rivers died, Diana Fitzjames, her husband and children had come to Ferndean. It was a mild autumn, with the scent of sugared fruit blowing on a fresh breeze. The children frolicked about, climbing on trees, playing hide-and-go-seek, taking large bites in apples and pears, the juice dribbling down on to starched shirts and pinafores. Ned Rochester, the oldest at fifteen, was reluctantly refereeing his younger sister and brother, and three cousins beside. He made continual references to being a ‘child-minder’ and how he just assume be back at school. Indeed, he should have been there now, as should Helen and Thomas at their respective institutes, but Jane took them home for a week or two every year during the harvest as she deemed them far enough along in their studies to devote some small time to play and family.  
But Mrs. Rochester, holding her cousin Diana’s arm, felt a sadness buried deep in her bosom despite the joy of family and the familiar.  
‘You mustn’t mourn for him,’ said Captain Fitzjames’s wife. ‘You knew him. Sometimes I think you understood him better than Mary or I. He knew that he would receive his everlasting reward. He would want no tears from you.’  
‘As you no doubt are aware, I was not always able to give St. John his own way, and still I find myself in dissention. I wept when I received Mary’s letter and so I shall now.’ She paused. ‘Tears were shed ten years ago when I thought him to be dying. Now that it has finally come to pass, I find myself ill-prepared to accept the news.’  
‘Yet we must, nevertheless.’  
A shrill scream caused the women to turn in fear. Diana’s son, a lad of nine, lay on the ground clutching his knee. A broken pear-tree bough lay suspiciously under him. Both mothers ran to the bawling child.  
‘Darling Albert! Whatever have you done to yourself?’ Mrs. Fitzjames pulled her handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe the poor boy’s face. ‘Are you badly hurt?’  
‘I saw what happened, Aunt,’ the youngest Rochester child, twelve-year old Thomas said, standing fully erect with arms folded authoritatively across his chest. ‘I told Albert the branches couldn’t support his weight. He climbed anyway. If he had heeded my advice, he would not be hurt now.’  
Diana kissed his cheek and calmed him before calling to the nurse to take the lad to the house to be cleaned up. Indeed, he was not much hurt, with just a bloodied knee and the fear of God that he had broken his neck.  
When the mayhem had ceased and Jane once again sent the remaining children back to their games, the two ladies laughed a little at Thomas. The grave boy, so unlike his merry brother and sister, was affectionately known as the ‘little friar’ for he had a disposition as such. He rarely got into trouble, was not easily led astray or into mischief, and fully knew that he was to be counted on more so than Ned or Helen to keep himself and others in order, despite being younger than both.  
‘He reminds me so of St. John, your Thomas,’ said Diana. ‘He was much the same as a boy. We could never entrust him with a secret or a wrongdoing for certain that he would ‘tell’ on us. He considered it his duty.’  
Jane smiled. She had guessed as much when her younger son was still quite an infant. There was something grave and humourless about the boy even then. He was so completely logical. He rarely cried and almost never complained. ‘I guess I was right then, in asking St. John to be Godfather to the boy, even though he was not here to do his duty by him.’  
‘He was very pleased to be asked. He told me as much in his letters. He was very…honoured, Jane, to have the connexion.’  
Jane turned, her face showing confusion. ‘Connexion?’  
‘To you. Through Thomas. That you still remembered him and recalled him fondly. He missed you.’ She cleared her throat with a little cough. ‘I know you don’t think him capable of a softer emotion, but…’  
‘No, I don’t, cousin.’ Jane squeezed the woman’s arm. ‘There was nothing akin to love for me that he felt. I know it.’  
‘Alright,’ said Diana. ‘We won’t discuss it again.’  
*  
Jane E. Rochester’s Journal  
17 October 18 - -  
Diana and family left yesterday. Ned and Thomas set to leave tom., Helen next week. Edward says he cannot possibly spare her before then. I think my little daughter (though she is not little anymore, thirteen and a young woman) has replaced a certain idolatry in my husband’s heart. She is such a little fairy to him. I think his heart will be broken when the suitors begin to swarm around her. Though she will never be the beauty of a Georgianna Reed or a Blanche Ingram, she has a finely drawn face and will have a true woman’s figure.  
Ned was fifteen last week, and his father gifted him with the prized yearling of Dinos. The horse, a solid grey animal the boy calls Silversmith will rival Mesrour for size and speed. He is so like his namesake and father, galloping across the fields with a descendant or two of Pilot trailing after, shooting at rodents, fishing in the brook. How I shall miss him when he goes to University! My own boy!  
Diana and I enjoyed several walks in my orchard. She is such a gay, robust and merry soul! I wonder as she has only Albert and his sisters and not a dozen more. Capt. and Edw. were back from assembly at Hay so we all were able to gather around the fire that night. Edw. read to us from Psalms and I was nearly overcome with joy at having my family, (MY family, that I never should have thought I would be blessed with) around me. Mary’s family was missed, but I know I shall be with her as soon as her baby is here. I have heard that if she is given a girl, I may look to have it called ‘Jane.’ St. John’s memory was much on my mind as well.  
Diana’s words are much on my mind and I regret that I may have spoken in haste in not allowing her leave to speak her mind. But there is nothing that can be said now. He was the man he was, and he was a very good man indeed. There was room for but one love in St. John Rivers’ life, and that was rightly his Lord and Maker. He could have been happy with Rosamond Oliver; he could have chipped away the ice from his heart for the sake of her beauty, her grace and her good-ness. But for me we would have been two isolated creatures in search of the same saving grace, the same nourishment, but with completely different means of accomplishing our goals. My dear St. John! My cousin, my martyr. For I do see him as such occasionally. There was never any single word in any of his letters that would lead me to believe he ever softened under the Indian sun. He was, and forever will be, a man who needed nothing and no-one to serve his fellow man. Some day—when the pain is not so acute—perhaps I will be able to read his old letters to me. Not this day. But some day.  
*  
25 January 18 - -  
Baptist Missionary Society  
Sarampore  
India  
My Dear Cousin Jane,  
I arrived on the shores of this new continent, like Moses, a stranger in a strange land, three months hence. Oh how well I know how it is to be banished in the Land of Nod, though I am no Cain! I think of Moor House and Mother England as an Eden of sorts now, but I trust that only time is needed to rectify that I am here on God’s own mission and He will surely protect and guide me. I do think how much quainter and more relaxed I would be if one of my brethren were with me, if I had my help-mate (Jane Rivers) to keep my sober mind on our task, one as immense and awe-inspiring as Babel’s city and tower. But I will succeed! I must succeed.  
Just as you have succeeded, my cousin, in the happiness you so richly deserve. I will make no mention of how or why you accomplished this, but I offer you my blessing and the hope of many children. I cannot say whether it is God’s will or man’s weakness, but I do know that you are among the very best of your sex and wifehood and motherhood are as high an achievement as any of your gender are likely to make.  
God Bless you and yours!  
S.E.R.  
*

3 November 18- -  
Ferndean Manor  
\---shire  
Northumberland  
My dear cousin,  
It has been now nearly a decade since you first gifted me with the joy and knowledge that the pitiless orphan Jane Eyre was not alone in this world. One moment I was a charity mistress, sitting by a dwindling fire in an unadorned hut, the next I was an heiress and completely free to control my own destiny. But that was no matter! It was only that I went from no-one to being somebody’s family that I cared about. My blood flowed in the same veins as some of the best of man and womankind. You gave me that great gift.  
And it is since that I have known the greatest gift. Each time I have had the crying babe laid into my arms I have never regretted my rôle as helpmate to a power less than you intended. Though I do regret that I could not give to you as you have to me, I will never know a greater joy than my children.  
Your sisters and their husbands, both men worthy of them (though just barely) are Godparents to our first son and daughter, Diana and then Mary respectively. Though they are near to guide them spiritually and you are a world away, I wish to ask you most respectfully if you would agree to service my new little son. Though he already has a head of dark curls and a nearly Arab complexion, he has the blood of St. John Eyre Rivers in him if I ever recognised it. Indeed, we Christened him Thomas Rivers because my Edward Doubted there was any Rochester in him, as was overflowing with our other two.  
I am as happy and content with the great gifts that God has given me, and I owe a large part of that to you, my dear cousin, who is and shall be like my brother. I can only bless you and hope that you will forever know that had you not saved that poor wretch on your raining doorstep that night years past, I would have died a loveless, un-mourned creature. My Edward once said that remorse is the poison of life and I admit that there is some remorse in my life. You are alone, and though I know that love is an emotion you are immune to, I do have remorse that I could learn to love you better and you to love me.  
I remain ever yours in thought and prayer,  
Jane Eyre Rochester  
*

An excerpt of St. John River’s Private Journal  
1 December 18 - -  
…received correspondence from Cousin Jane yesterday. She is safe and warm, though she denied God’s safe and warm will. I wonder…I wonder often of her life. I wonder of what it could be if I were the father of these three children. I could have a strapping boy to help build churches. I could have a daughter to sit at my knee and darn my socks. I would have this second son—this Doubting Thomas—that one day could succeed his father on his mission. I could have a wife to speak to the women, to fix me a shepherd’s pie, to tie my tie in the morning. To be at my side as God intended women. I would have my Jane here, my Jane whose mind is equal to any man’s, whose will is strong and whose faith is resolute. She is not the beauty of a Miss Oliver. She is not a woman that any man would give up his life for. Yet she is the only thing I have ever wanted for all my own.  
*

3 May 18- -  
Baptist Missionary Society  
Sarampore  
India  
To my Godson, namely Thomas Rivers Rochester, current of Ferndean Manor, ---shire, England  
Dear Sir,  
Though you are still quite a boy as I write this, it is my hope that you will not lay eyes upon it until you have the experience and understanding of a man. My name may be unfamiliar to you, or perhaps you may recall some small kindnesses paid upon you as a child by a man called Rivers who professed to be your Godfather. Indeed, I am both that man and that titled person, however absent or remiss in my ecclesiastical duties I have been in your religious upbringing. For this, I firstly beg of your forgiveness. I do realise that a gift of a Bible and the occasional discourse of God’s love and plan for your life does not take the place of the personal Duty I have toward you. Know that your name transpires daily (and nightly) in my prayers as does that of your very good mother.  
Why do I write to you now, you may ask? Because as I sit at my stool, my wrist shaking, my strength depleted, I am soon to be in Heaven. Yes, I shall never know the boy my cousin gave my name to, and this distresses me. I never married, so naturally I have no children, and because of that I am left alone with only my converts to attend to me. Do not mis-understand, I am thankful for each small soul that is saved do to my efforts, but even the best among them cannot take the place of having one’s own to surround him as he takes his last breaths. Most of all, I wish that you and your mother could be here to attend to me, as I have no doubt we have very similar constitutions. You would understand what it means to dedicate one’s life to Another; to work and strive to turn a wild savage world into a more perfect Christian one. Perhaps one day you yourself will wish to work for the Lord Christ and you may do a great deal of good if you do. I hope and pray that it may be so.  
I wish you to know that there is a reason for this letter. There is something I should confess, and I have no one save my Godson to do it too. I wish not to burden a son with a confession of love for his mother, as that is both unworthy and unfair, but I have hopes that you, Thomas, may understand. I have never met your father. I have every assurance from my sisters that he is both a decent and loving man, and that sooths my worry. No doubt you honour and respect your father as the Book says you should, and I would never encourage you to do otherwise. But I wish you to know that there was once another man that could have loved your mother as much, if not more, than he, and I am that man. Many have said (your aunts, your own mother) that I am incapable of said emotion, and I have tried to rid my heart of it. But alas! In failure. I do love Jane Eyre. I was made to love her. She is how God decreed that woman should be, your mother.  
Perhaps this note will never reach your eyes. I do think in many ways that it would be better if it did not. I would not have burdened an innocent young man with the hollow words of a man long dead. You would remember me your Godfather (if at all) in the way that others have explained him. A driven man, a devoted man. A determined man. But I wish you to know that he was a man.  
My blessing for a strong, healthy Christian life for you, my dear boy.  
Your Godfather,  
St. John Rivers  
*


End file.
